But at last success dawned. And its herald was a letter in the long
slender handwriting of Mr. Skinner.

"The new Brood are out," wrote Mr. Skinner, "and don't quite like the
look of them. Growing very rank--quite unlike what the similar lot was
before your last directions was given. The last, before the cat got
them, was a very nice, stocky chick, but these are Growing like
thistles. I never saw. They peck so hard, striking above boot top, that
am unable to give exact Measures as requested. They are regular Giants,
and eating as such. We shall want more com very soon, for you never saw
such chicks to eat. Bigger than Bantams. Going on at this rate, they
ought to be a bird for show, rank as they are. Plymouth Rocks won't be
in it. Had a scare last night thinking that cat was at them, and when I
looked out at the window could have sworn I see her getting in under the
wire. The chicks was all awake and pecking about hungry when I went out,
but could not see anything of the cat. So gave them a peck of corn, and
fastened up safe. Shall be glad to know if the Feeding to be continued
as directed. Food you mixed is pretty near all gone, and do not like to
mix any more myself on account of the accident with the pudding. With
best wishes from us both, and soliciting continuance of esteemed
favours,

"Respectfully yours,

"ALFRED NEWTON SKINNER."


The allusion towards the end referred to a milk pudding with which some
Herakleophorbia II. had got itself mixed with painful and very nearly